Colin Dexter - The Remorseful Day

He signed his name to several documents without bothering too much what they were. But before signing one form he was asked to read some relevant words aloud: “I understand that I am not allowed to possess or have anything to do with firearms or ammunition of any description...” It didn’t matter anyway. In all probability there’d be no need to use the gun; and apart from himself only Debbie knew its whereabouts.

Almost finished now.

He took possession of an order issued under the Criminal Justice Act re Supervision in the Community, specifying the Oxford Probation Service in Park End Street as the office to which he was required to report regularly. Then he completed the Discharge Certificate itself, with a series of initials against Travel Warrant (Bullingdon to Oxford), Personal Property (as itemized), Personal Cash (£24.50), Discharge Grant (£45), Discharge Clothing (offered but not issued). And, finally, one further full signature, dated and countersigned by the Principal Officer, underneath the unambiguous assertion: i have no outstanding complaints. And indeed Harry Repp had nothing much to complain about. At least, not about Bullingdon — except perhaps that any residual good in him had wasted and had withered there.

He was escorted across the prison yard to the main gates, where he reported to the Senior Officer, citing his full name and prison number to be checked against the Discharge List. And that was it. The heavy gates were opened, and Harry Repp stepped out of prison. A free man.

He looked at his wristwatch, repeatedly glancing around him as if he might be expecting someone to meet him. But there seemed to be no one. According to the bus timetable they’d given him, there would be a wait of ten minutes or so; and he walked slowly down the paved path which led from the Central Reception Area to the road. There he turned and looked back at the high concreted walls, lightish beige with perhaps a hint of some pinkish coloration, lampposts stationed at regular intervals in front of them, sturdily vertical until, at their tops, they leaned toward the prison, like guardsmen inclining their heads around a catafalque.

Harry Repp turned his back on the prison for the last time, and walked more briskly toward the bus stop and toward freedom.

Seated at the front window of the Central Reception Area, Sergeant Lewis had been a vigilant observer of the final events recorded in the previous chapter, immediately ducking down when the newly released man had turned to look back at the prison complex. Needlessly so, for the two men were quite unknown to each other.

This was hardly the trickiest assignment he’d ever been given, Lewis knew that; and in truth he could see little justification for the trouble being taken. Except in Superintendent Strange’s (not usually fanciful) imagination, there seemed only a tenuous connection between the Harrison murder and Harry Repp — the latter sentenced to fifteen months’ imprisonment, and now released early on parole on grounds of exemplary behavior. And in any case, Strange’s instructions (not Morse’s) had been vague in the extreme: “Keep an eye on him, see where he goes, who he meets, and, er, generally, you know... well, no need to tell an experienced officer like you.”

And yet (Lewis considered the point afresh) had Strange’s motivation been all that fanciful? Repp was known to have been active in the vicinity at the relevant period, and had in fact been under limited police surveillance for some time, although not of course on the night of the murder. And then there was the letter to Strange — a letter which, whilst pointing a finger only vaguely at the general locality of Lower Swinstead, had quite specifically pointed toward the man now being released from prison.

As Repp walked away Lewis got to his feet and shook hands with the prison officer who had communicated to him as much as anyone at Bullingdon was ever likely to know about the man just released: aged 37; height 5′ 10″; weight 13 stone 4 pounds; hair dark brown, balding; complexion medium; tattoo (naval design) covering left forearm; sentenced for the receipt and sale of stolen goods; at the time of arrest cohabiting with Debbie Richardson, of 15 Chaucer Lane, Burford.

After driving the unmarked police car from the crowded staff car park, Lewis stopped on the main road, moving round the car as he slowly checked his tire pressures, all the while keeping watch on the bus stop, only fifty yards away, where two men, Repp and a slimmer ferrety-looking fellow, stood waiting; from where Lewis could hear so very clearly the frequently vociferated plaints from the ferret: “Where the fuckin’ ‘ell’s the fuckin’ bus got to?”

In fact, the fuckin’ bus was well on its way; and a few minutes later the two men boarded a virtually empty bus and uncommunicatively took their separate seats.

Lewis moved smoothly into gear and followed discreetly, not at all unhappy when another (rather posh) car interposed itself between him and the bus. (Another posh car behind him, for that matter.) Any minor worry that Repp might unexpectedly get off at some stage between Bullingdon and Bicester was taking care of itself very nicely, since the bus made no stop whatsoever until reaching the Bure Place bus station in Bicester, where the ferret straightaway alighted (and straightaway disappeared); and where Repp, the immediate quarry, walked up the line of bus shelters to the 27 oxford (Direct) bay, promptly boarding the bus already standing there.

Repp was not the only one who had done his homework on the Bicester-Oxford timetable. For Lewis, knowing there would be a full ten-minute wait before departure, and leaving his car in the capacious car park opposite, walked quickly through the short passageway to Sheep Street, passing the public toilets on his left, where at Forbuoys Newsagent’s he bought the Mirror. Even if there was a bit of a queue, so what? He would rather enjoy not following but chasing the 27 to Oxford. But the bus was still there, filling up quite quickly, as he got back into his car.

After the implementation of the Beeching Report of the mid-sixties, passengers between Oxford and Bicester had perforce to use their own cars. But the former railway line had now been re-opened; and the deregulated bus companies were trying their best, and sometimes succeeding, in tempting passengers back to public transport. There were no traffic jams on the rail, and a newly designated bus lane from Kidlington gave a comparatively fast-track entry into Oxford. So perhaps (Lewis pondered the matter) it was hardly surprising that Repp had not been picked up at Bullingdon by a friend, or by a relative, or by his common-law wife. Yet it would surely have been so much easier, quicker, more convenient that way?

At 10:10 A.M. the 27 pulled out of the bus station and headed toward Oxford, in due course crossing over the M40 junction and making appropriately good speed along the A34, before turning off through Kidlington and then over the A40 down toward Oxford City Centre.

And again Lewis was fortunate, for no one had got off the bus along the route until the upper reaches of the Banbury Road.

Easy!

Driving at a safe and courteous distance behind the bus, Lewis had ample opportunity for reflecting once more on the slightly disturbing developments of the previous few days...

Morse had been as good as his word that Monday morning, when the latter part of their audience with Strange had turned almost inexplicably bitter. No, Morse could not agree to any involvement in the reopening of the Harrison inquiries. Yes, Morse realized (“Fully, sir!”) the possible implications of his non-compliance with the decision of a superior officer. Yet oddly enough, it had been Strange who had seemed the more unsure of himself during those final exchanges; and Lewis had found himself puzzled, and suspecting that there were certain aspects of the case of which he himself was wholly unaware.